"Sweet is the breath of vernal show'r, "The bee's collected treasure sweet, VI. Foremost and leaning from her golden cloud, "Welcome, my noble son!" she cries aloud, VII. "Lo! Granta waits to lead her blooming band; "Nor obvious, nor obtrusive, she "No vulgar praise, no venal incense flings, Nor dares with courtly tongue refin'd "Profane thy inborn royalty of mind: "She reveres herself and thee, "With modest pride to grace thy youthful brow "The laureate wreath that Cecilt wore she brings, "And to thy just thy gentle hand "Submits the fasces of her sway; "While spirits blest above and men below, "Join with glad voice the loud symphonious lay. • Countess of Richmond and Derby, the mother of Henry VII. foundress of St. John's and Christ's colleges. The Countess was a Beaufort, and married to a Tudor ; hence the application of this line to the Duke of Grafton, who claims descent from both these families. + Lord Treasurer Burleigh was Chancellor of the University in the Reign of Queen Elizabeth. VIII. "Thro' the wild waves, as they roar, MISCELLANIES. A LONG STORY. Advertisement. MR. GRAY's Elegy, previous to its publication, was handed about in MS. and had, amongst other admirers, the Lady Cobham, who resided in the mansion-house at Stoke Pogis. The per formance inducing her to wish for the Author's acquaintance, Lady Schaub and Miss Speed, then at her house, undertook to introduce her to it. These two ladies waited upon the Author at his aunt's solitary habitation, where he at that time resided, and not finding him at home, they left a card behind them. Mr. Gray, surprised at su h a compliment, returned the visit; and as the beginning of this intercours: bore some appearance of romance, he gave the humourous and lively account of it which the Long Story contains. IN Britain's isle, no matter where, IN An ancient pile of building stands *; The Huntingdons and Hattons there. Employ'd the pow'r of Fairy hands. The mansion-house at Stoke-Pogis, then in the posses sion. of Viscountess Cobham. The style of building which we now call Queen Elizabeth's, is bere admirably described, both with regard to its beauties and defects; and the third and fourth stangas delineate the fantastic, manners of her To raise the cieling's fretted height, Full oft within the spacious walls, His bushy-beard and shoe-strings green, His high-crown'd hat and satin doublet, Mov'd the stout heart of England's queen, Tho' Pope and Spaniard could not trouble it. What, in the very first beginning, Your hist'ry whither are you spinning? A house there is (and that's enough) The first came cap-a-pee from France, time with equal truth and humour. The house formerly belonged to the Earls of Huntingdon and the family of Hatton. Sir Christopher Hatton, promoted by Queen Elizabeth or his graceful person and fine dancing..... Brawls were a sort of a figure-dance then in vogue, and probably deemed as elegant as our modern cotillons, or still more modern quadrilles. The reader is already apprized who these ladies were ; the two descriptions are prettily contrasted; and nothing can be more happily turned than the compliment to Lady Cobham in the eighth stanza. The other amazon kind heav'n To celebrate her eyes, her air.... Alas! who would not wish to please her: With bonnet blue and capuchin, Fame, in the shape of Mr. P....t*, Who prowl'd the country far and near, My Lady heard their joint petition, The heroines undertook the task; The trembling family they daunt, I have been told that this gentleman, a neighbour and acquaintance of Mr. Gray's in the country, was much displeased at the liberty here taken with his name, yet surely without any great reason. Each hole and cupboard they explore, Into the drawers and china pry," Or creas'd like dog's-ears in a folio. On the first marching of the troops, The Muses, hopeless of his pardon, Convey'd him underneath their hoops, To a small closet in the garden. So Rumour says; (who will believe) But that they left the door a-jar, Where safe, and laughing in his sleeve, He heard the distant din of war? Short was his joy: he little knew The words too eager to unriddle So cunning was the apparatus, The pow'rful pot-hooks did so move him, Yet on his way (no sign of grace, The godhead would have back'd his quarrel; But with a blush, on recollection, Own'd that his quiver and his laurel 'Gainst four such eyes were no protection. |